The Forked Road
by Spike Daft
Summary: Grima's life under the hand of Saruman. Mostly canon; maybe all canon. Haven't decided..
1. Chapter One: The Purging of Edoras

**Author's Note: ****I love poor tragic Grima. 'Nuff said.**

**Disclaimer: I own none of Tolkien's characters, events, or locations; his work is solely his own, and he must be damn proud.**

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**Chapter One: ****The Purging of Edoras**         

Grima the Wormtongue paced the steps before his king, his footfalls silent despite his agitation. Theoden, aged far beyond his years under the curse of Saruman and the cunning goading toward despondency from Grima himself, watched impassively, head drooping like a dying flower. He struggled to remember what Hama had reported to him that had upset his advisor so, but the growing mists in his mind shadowed them, and he had been sapped of the will to overcome them. He remained motionless upon his throne, like a stone in the great and darkened hall, and let his mind wander over dark things that he could not name. Occasionally he would surface to the present and take notice of Grima, who was pacing and muttering, his strange pale eyes afire with calculation. At length Theoden realised that Grima was speaking to him, and lifted his head slightly to listen.

          "They come with naught but ill news, and the tidings of war, with which they will goad you to fight and die alongside them," Grima hissed. "Usurpers! Let them come freely into Edoras, then, but should they wish to enter this hall I would have Hama relieve them of their weapons. For it is Gandalf the Stormcrow come calling, King. He is but an ill tiding in himself, and rides forth upon your stolen horse to upset this house and convince you to send your men to death upon plains darker and more distant than those of Rohan. It is insolence, Majesty; surely great Theoden would not have it in his house?"

          At this Grima slunk forth to the King's side and leaned very close, whispering, "Thy might outshines the wanderer in gray; fall not unto his tricks, for your failure to be resilient will mean the fall of Rohan. And with your son dead and Eomer a traitor..."

           He let his words trail off then, letting the poison he had planted in Theoden's mind finish for him. 

          It was then that the door came open and Hama strode toward the king. Grima remained close to the King's side, crouching upon the steps.

          "My lord," said Grima, "three wanderers in gray have ventured to Edoras, claiming to be in dire need of your council. They wait upon the outside steps. What is your command?"

          "Permit them," said the king slowly, "but take their weapons."

          "One of them," said Grima, "carries a staff. Take it from him; do not let him enter with it. Take all that they may bear."

          Hama stared at him for a moment, and his eyes went to Theoden, who nodded slowly. The guard left then, and it was in silence that the king and his counselor waited.

          I need not tell what happened then, for it is a well-known tale. Grima's misfortune led him eventually to Isengard, to stay at his new master's side. Herein we join him...      

The water of the river was as cold as the Wormtongue's fear, and like his fear it rose steadily as he approached the tower of Orthanc. He floundered helplessly as the tree-thing loomed behind him, watching, but despite its vigilance Grima doubted that if his dark head were to vanish beneath the waters it would venture forth to save him. In truth, he was loathe to have it handle him again, even for rescue, for his ribs had been crushed beneath the grip of it when it had lifted him off of his horse; he had heard them crunching, and when he was forced into the waters the pain was unimaginable, and he cowered now upon a floating barrel, his black robes dragging him back down into the water as he fought for breath that barely came. He remained in this state, unaware of the time passing as he stared unblinkingly at the flood before him, until suddenly the barrel struck something solid and he was hurled from it onto the steps of Orthanc.

          He lay but a fraction of a moment before the doors creaked open and a long, pale hand snatched his cloak, dragging him in. Grima kept his cries behind his teeth as his tortured ribs scraped the ground, and when the hand released him he scrambled to his knees, bowing and cringing fervently in turn. His shame had deserted him long ago, and so it was in its absence that he did prostrate himself before Saruman the White, his Master. He peered up at him through a curtain of dark, dripping hair with exhaustion reddened eyes.

          "Your lip bleeds," said Saruman, and flung a cloth at Grima's huddled form. "Wipe it away; it revolts me. Stain not the steps of Orthanc with your foulness. Tell me instead your news of Rohan; from your state I expect you are in ill favour with the horse-lords."

           "I was cast out at the coming of Gandalf," gasped Grima, wiping vainly at his blood, "and your veil lifted from the mind of Theoden."

          Wormtongue was aware that Saruman knew of this beforehand, but he dared not express this knowledge for fear of more of his master's erratic retribution. He said nothing, for his dealings with Saruman did not leave him void of education; if his master was angry with him, he learned, then pain would be his companion thusly. Better, he supposed, to play the ignorant fool, pitiable in his actions and lack of observation, but useful nonetheless.

          How he hated Saruman, who true to Gandalf's presumption had indeed bought him; but no longer did he toil under the Istari through promise of payment, but rather through fear. Any hope of Grima's reward had been drawn from their relationship as Saruman's disease had been drawn from Theoden, but no matter; pain was a better motivator by far.

          Soon Saruman tired of his company, frustrated at the turn of the tide, and left Grima to his own in the cold dark chamber. Exhausted and defeated, Grima slowly lowered himself to the hard floor and lay with his head upon its smooth surface, feeling darkness like the waters outside closing in around him, and soon it bore him away to a dark and dreamless torpor.

          Around him things began to change in Isengard.

          Grima lay in a state of oblivion where he had fallen, not feeling the coldness of Orthanc's stones seeping in his core, preying on the weakness and injury that plagued him. When Saruman finally returned and Grima came to himself again he could hardly move, so long had he remained inert. The passage of time had left him in its wake; he knew not whether it was days or weeks that he had been lying there. _Perhaps months, even?_ he marveled to himself. _Surely I could not have been so idle for so long…_

          And then his mind went to Theoden, and his doubt ceased.

          Saruman was speaking to him now, and his voice was low and dangerous, and held an undercurrent of defeat.

          "I sense your despair," he said to Grima, and the sound of his voice was the sound of that which he sensed in Grima, and yet he tried to mask it. "It is unwise to doubt me, Worm; the White is not cowed by losing Theoden his puppet. He was but a trifle."

          "Alas, however," said Grima, "that your hand should reach there no longer."

          Saruman stared at him for a long moment, and then turned on his heel and left. 

Though Wormtongue had heard of no news, he knew that Helm's Deep had resisted Saruman's hand.

          In his black heart he sensed gladness.

          _Days later…_

          He had done it. He had thrown the Palantir, down, down to the steps of Orthanc, and rid his master of his precious tool. He feigned ignorance, of course, for despite his growing madness Grima was still cunning, and he gave no sign that he knew what it was. Yet he was disappointed, for in the throes of his battle he could not decide who he would rather strike with it, and thus when indecision jerked his hand from its mark the seeing-stone bounced harmlessly by Gandalf's head, and a halfling scurried to retrieve it.

          Now Saruman was storming up the steps to him, and the Wormtongue crouched like a beast upon the floor, awaiting him, and he was torn between terror and glee as the door flew open with a great rush of sound and power and his Master entered with his face twisted in a most hideous mask of rage. In his hand he bore the broken end of his staff.

          "You witless fool!" he cried. "Crawling, pathetic, ignorant, witless fool!"

          He brought the splintered end of the staff down into the Wormtongue's back, and Grima shrieked in agony, but Saruman jerked his weapon free of its mark and struck his spy across the head with it, and his scream was cut short. His dark robes pooled round him as he slumped bloody to the floor, and Saruman felt a whisper of satisfaction, but nothing he did could overcome his fury and desolation. He looked down to his weapon, split twice asunder in his hand, a white hand which was now bloody from the shards of it. In disgust he threw it, and kicked Wormtongue in the ribs as he passed him, and from the window he could see Gandalf and his company leaving.

          _To my misery_, thought Saruman bitterly. _He leaves me gladly, and knows what he leaves. My only companion this!_

          "Get up, you idiot!" he shouted, and kicked Wormtongue again, and his servant groaned faintly, clutching at his robes.

          "You miserable fool," hissed Saruman, and jerked the hem away. "Lie there in weakness, then, and suffer all the more for it. I shall not feed you. You will feel the pains of hunger as a reminder of your stupidity; the wise know that one must never feed it, and to the physical I take it thus. Suffer, and find me when you are through with your self-pity."

          At this he turned on his heel, Grima clutching weakly at it, and left the room. The door shut behind him, leaving Grima to his own.


	2. Chapter Two: Visions

**Author's Note: ****Thank you for the reviews!**

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**Chapter Two:**** Visions**

Wormtongue was roused by a kick to his already sore ribs, and he jerked awake to see his Master towering over him. He squinted up at him dully, unaware of how long he might have slept, but a chill had crept into his bones that he felt would be long in going.

          "We are to leave before the sun rises," he said. "Wake yourself, Worm; your weakness will only serve to hinder us both. Ready yourself, and be quick!" 

          He tossed a crust of bread upon the floor near Grima, who merely stared at it as though it might strike him, and turned his face from it up to his master.

          "Leave Isengard?" he asked in wonder. "How would they let us go so freely?"

          "They are fools," said Saruman. "Their pity is unfounded and foolish, but it is to our advantage, little Worm. We will set forth and be rid of them by day's light. Prepare to leave."

          He turned and left quickly, and Wormtongue could see he was in a black mood, and thus said no more about the bread which was sodden and dirty. Instead he struggled to his feet and crept after the wizard, his footsteps silent and his pale eyes always roving. They settled at last upon his master, and though Saruman's face was not turned to him Wormtongue could sense the despair and defeat that he radiated, though the wizard was hiding it to the best of his supreme abilities. It was this gift of insight long ago acquired by Grima, and was on occasion a curse, for upon noticing this he could not longer wander behind Saruman blithely, with hope of conquest and reward still in his breast. No, he reasoned, it would no longer come to that. The White Hand was defeated, yet still the more dangerous for it, namely for those who served him, for surely the blame will settle upon them as blame is wont to do. It is they that would incur that wrath, and poor Grima included. How fortunate the minion, he thought, to fall on the battlefields well away from his master's hand!

          Presently he came to himself again and obeyed Saruman's barked commands to follow, and during this long dark time he thought not once of hope.

          He would come to deeply regret leaving the bread.

Saruman had not spoken idly; before the first of the sun's rays had pierced the morning mists he and his servant were long from Isengard. The chill of the night caused them to wrap their cloaks about them tightly, and Saruman would kick Grima for pleasure from time to time, smiling inwardly at seeing the creature cringe away at his very glance. Doglike Wormtongue followed him, always at his heels, and whimpering softly to himself, clutching his ribs, for he could not reach the wound Saruman had given him with the broken staff.

          "Stop now," said Saruman at the end of that first day. "Your rest will not be long, Worm, so make the best of it."

          Grima collapsed onto the hard earth as though his joints had been clipped, and lay in the dirt with his pale eyes misted, muttering dark things to himself. Saruman wondered briefly if he was going mad, but did not concern himself, for ever was he in control of the cringing creature. Perhaps it would be amusing at any rate, to watch him writhe in the throes of delicious madness, as it is always a balm for those who witness insanity and are assured thereafter to be themselves free of it.

          _Take comfort, Saruman_, he thought, _for no madness would try to invade you with easier prey at your heels. Let him suffer!_

          And so he kicked Wormtongue into rising after just moments of rest, and set off with him again into the hills, and as he walked he smiled to himself.

          Night came suddenly, as though it stalked the travelers, and as it pounced Grima looked to the sky with fear.

          "Perhaps it would be wise to camp, my Lord," he whispered.

          Saruman turned, and his eyes were dark. "That might be the wish of a lazy, impudent servant," he hissed, "but I say we press on and gather more distance between us and the fools who might be on our trail. I would hope that you would not be so bold as to suggest this is less than wise, Worm."

          "No, Lord," groveled Grima from the ground, "I merely suggested it, but you are far wiser than I. I do not question, Lord."

          "No," said Saruman slowly, and then he kicked Grima hard. "Rise, then; crawl not like a dog, Worm, for it steals time! I shall not wait for you to grovel your way across these hills; I will kill you first."

          "Mercy, Saruman!" cried Grima. "I will follow!"

          "Then follow!" said Saruman, and turning went faster than before. Grima stumbled after him, keeping his eyes to the ground in an effort to forget the expanse before him that must be traveled. His thoughts drifted strangely until he could hardly feel the pain of his journey; it felt as though it were a wholly other being, apart and far away, and he was distantly aware of it.

          During this time he thought of many things, and remembered much that he had forgotten since he fell under the command of Saruman.

          _You were once a man of Rohan,_ said a voice inside him. _Remember the pride instilled in your heart at the thundering of your horses' hooves, and the calling of your people returned home from battle. Remember the fair girl of your youth, lost now in the shadow of death and with no marker of remembrance. Forget not poor Tellath… You have betrayed her, Grima. You have betrayed them all, and have no power to show for it, only pain and weakness. You deserve no more or less._

Wormtongue nearly cried aloud as a vision of a small girl with long, pale hair swept across his fevered vision; she lay the same as he had seen her so long ago, on a heap of earth sodden with her own blood. An orc sword had quenched its bloodthirst in her belly. And not far from where she lay, his mother, Shellana, spilled similarly upon the ground.

          "Tellath…sister…" he moaned softly to himself, and clutched at his temples, teeth bared in agony.

          _You have betrayed her, Grima…_

"No, Father," he gasped, and it was then that Saruman turned and looked at him with a strange light in his eye, and Grima came to himself. 

          "Of what do you speak?" inquired Saruman, and his voice was not so harsh as before, but curious.

          "Nothing, Lord," whispered Grima, his pale eyes misted with tears that he tried desperately to hide.

          "Nothing?" A dark brow lifted.

          "Merely a passing vision, my Lord… I am very weary. Very weary."

          Saruman watched him for a while longer; Grima fell to his knees on the ground and groveled before his master, and the wizard began to fell his own tiredness aching. 

          "Very well," he said, "we shall rest here for the night. Before dawn's first light we shall set out again, and go west."

          "Yes Lord," said Grima, and sat down upon the ground with his head in his hands. Beside him Saruman lay down and drifted to sleep, confident that he would find no dagger in his back come morning.

          Exhausted as he was Wormtongue could not sleep, for his terrible visions had upset him so that he could do little more but sit upon the ground and fret. He saw himself plunging his dagger into Saruman who lay asleep near him, but even as he thought of it a terrible fear gripped him, and he jerked his hand from the handle of his weaponas though it burned him.

          He remained in this state for hours, though how many he knew not, and just as he thought sleep might claim him a rustle in the nearby bushes startled him into alertness. Beside him he sensed that Saruman too stirred, and in the dim he could see him rise slightly. Yet before either of them could move they each felt a lance point in their backs, and therein came a dark voice which hissed:

          "Move, intruders, and your blood will paint the rocks."


	3. Chapter Three: An Old Fury

**Author's Note: ****Thanks for the reviews. Lovely, lovely, all of you. How funny it was to come, whilst reading other Grima fic reviews, across the phrase "pervy Wormtongue fanciers". Perhaps we all should form a club. "The Grima Guild", perhaps?  LOL.**

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**Chapter Three:**** An Old Fury**

Grima tried valiantly to stifle his cries as the point of the lance dug into his injured back. Behind him he coud hear the dirt crunching under many boots, and the hem of a cloak brushed his face as he turned to see what had come up behind him. Beside him Saruman sat calmly, seemingly unperturbed at the weaponry digging into his skin, and listened as the leader spoke again.

          "What right have you to trespass upon our lands?" growled the voice, and Saruman smiled.

          "Up with your weapon, Dengal; the nerve of Saruman is not lessened by your petty threats."

          Immediately there came a collective intake of breath from the dark assembly, and Grima felt the point of the weapon remove itself blessedly from his tortured flesh. Saruman stood then, and kicked him also into rising, and as he stood Grima could see a gathering of men clothed in cloaks that hid them in shadow.

          The tallest, Dengal, spoke softly in the gloom. "Forgive me, Saruman... I knew not that it was you. Our actions were hasty; understand that many a being has strayed into our territory of late, and many were of a fell disposition. We meant you no harm."     

          "Your land has remained remarkably unchanged despite the chaos that has befallen Middle Earth," said Saruman. "Orcs travel freely now, on their way to some dark business. You and your men are indeed strong if you have been able to resist them."

          "Aye, the evil lot of them," said Dengal hatefully. "Their cruel feet rip up the land, and they would burn our village if they could find it. Yet there are none who can, and we are the better for it. Though it is highly strange, Saruman, to see you walk abroad. These are dangerous times."

          "I walk to where I must," said Saruman, "and fear no earthly peril. The orcs cannot harm me."

          "Undoubtedly not. It is a long way from Isengard, my friend; pray tell me: why have you sought to leave it? What errands would send the White Hand wayward?"

          "None that I would speak of," said Saruman grimly, and yet he smiled as he spoke, and in that moment he could have charmed the birds from the trees. It was then that Grima began to understand: Dengal knew not of Saruman's allegiance with Sauron. His people were isolated; no word must have come to them of recent times.

          _A pity for them, then,_ thought Grima, _for surely he will seek to gain from this, and when the White gains all others lose._

"Who is this creature beside you?" Dengal asked at length, and Grima looked up from his reverie to see the man staring, and met his dark eyes. Dengal seemed taken aback by the sight of him in the gloom; Grima knew how his pale eyes gleamed unnervingly in shadow, and he stood as still as a stone, gazing back.

          "Do not trouble yourself with him, Dengal," said Saruman. "His name is Grima, but you need not remember it; he is but useless company. Be civil, Grima; respect must be shown in another man's land!"

          Hastily Grima bowed, lowering his clouded eyes. "It is an honour, my Lord, to be permitted upon your sacred land. Forgive my silence; never have I seen such a swift and silent band of men, and for a moment my awe did overcome me."

          Saruman glanced at him, pleased, and when Grima straightened again he was led by the others to follow his master and Dengal, who were striding into the cover of the trees, and all the while Saruman spoke smoothly, as though detached from it, of the evil brewing in Mordor and the fell nature of the orc, and to the unknowing eye he would seem every bit the benefactor.

          When at last they reached the outskirts of the village Grima was very near exhaustion, and could hardly support his own weight, which was slight with small frame and starvation. Frowning, one of the accompanying men looked to Dengal and mouthed something.

          Dengal regarded Wormtongue and turned to Saruman. "Your companion is weak and ill, as though he has been injured and without food for many days. Has your condition indeed been so grave?"

          "These are foul times," replied Saruman, unperturbed. "We went wayward on our urgent errand and could not stop, nor think of food. I fear Grima is weaker than most; he is a small thing, no doubt, but well-serving when he means to be."

          "We will see to it that you receive at least one good meal and rest before we send you off again, friend, for we need every last creature of good intentions in these times" said Dengal. Grima felt a swell of guilt that they should be taken under such a blind wing, and turned his attention to his pain so that he would not think on it.

          The smell of food wafted about the village as they approached. The huts were set into a great overhanging of rock that jutted out from the mountain, and a thick copse of trees surrounded it on its three unprotected sides, making it invisible to even those who strayed very near.

          Dengal gave a shrill whistle as they approached, and at the sound more men came out of the huts, followed by a few women, all dressed in the greens and browns of their kinfolk. Dengal strode out ahead and exchanged words with them while Saruman and Grima stayed respectfully behind with their escort. Presently the men came forward and greeted Saruman, and together went off into a large hut in the centre of the village. Three women, all strong-looking yet fair and kind of face, came forward to Grima and took him gently by the arms, supporting him, for at the prospect of food and rest his legs finally began to fail him, as though they had waited for this very chance.

          One woman, fairest of the three, smiled down upon him and said in a quiet voice, "Good evening, Master Grima. I am called Gaelen. These are my sisters, Laraley and Emertress. Dengal informed me of your condition, and from what I can see it is a sight worse. We will help you."

          Grima nodded his thanks, strange sleep overcoming him even as he fought it, for he wanted again to hear that voice, light and melodious as the wind in the trees. His head lolled forward slowly, and he found that he could no longer hear Lady Gaelen, nor feel the strong hands of Laraley and Emertress. It was with remorse that he surrendered to the quiet dark. 

The warmth of a fire woke him hours later, and Wormtongue lay still at first, wondering at how he felt, for no longer did his body burn with exhaustion and hunger, and the pain of his wounds was lessened. He came to himself shortly and opened his eyes to see the fair face of Lady Emertress above him, smiling gently. He could hear the voices of her sisters not far away, and he meant to sit up, but Emertress placed her strong hands upon his shoulders and forced him gently back.

          "Nay, do not rise just yet, my lord," she said softly. "We have seen to your wounds, and your sleep has helped you, but still you are weak. Your master preferred that you stay here and recover while he takes council with our soldiers."

          "I have missed the counsel?" asked Grima, shocked, and thought, _Saruman truly has no more use of me, then._

          "It is for the better. None of it is good news, from what I have heard, and most of which you likely know already. Our people are solitary; we know nothing of the outside world. Your master will be doing much of the talking, I expect."

          "I am grateful for your ministrations," said Grima at length, and was rewarded by another gentle smile, yet this one was somehow grimmer.

"It appears," said Emertress, "that no other has bothered. Our pity for you steadied and quickened our hands; you were nearly lost at first." 

Seeing Grima cringe at her statement of pity she quickly rose and left, and he found himself alone in the small hut, whose western wall was made of the mountain itself, into which a hearth had been hewed. Within a fire flickered merrily, and Grima savoured its warmth, for it had been long seasons since he had felt it last. Yet his heart remained cold and leaden, and the maiden's words had troubled and embarrassed him, and he began to feel a stir of something dangerous within him. Embarrassed by maidens who knew nothing of anything; how dare they pity him! Him, Lord Wormtongue, who had ensnared the mighty king of the horse-lords to his power with no weapon but his words!

Wincing he rose from his pile of cushions and blankets, and went to the door, peering out to see the sisters and other maidens tending to a massive cauldron of fragrant stew which simmered merrily in the open ground of the village. Face close to the crack in the door he began to feel a strange anger burning within him, and his mind once again was filled with evil thoughts, as it had been in the days when he was stronger.

"You will have no reason to pity Grima the Wormtongue," he hissed, "when he is finished here."

Outside Gaelen threw dry logs onto the fire beneath the cauldron. Flames shot upward, sending the shadows of the night scurrying away from the huts, but to Grima it looked as though the very night had fled from his words. 


	4. Chapter Four: A Rising Tide

**Author's Note: My thanks to the Phantom for the constructive review. Having been a slave to the book since I was a child I delighted with the coming of the movies, so much so that—perhaps unfortunately—I have adopted the method of the shortcut. I had hoped no one would notice, but your keen eye was dead on. It is a compliment to know how much attention you are paying, and thus I am grateful for your bringing up the subject. If one person has noticed, it is one person too many, and thusly chapter one was in need of a change. Reread the unabridged version; it has received better ministrations, and hopefully the shortcut I took this time might not grate so harshly on the Tolkienite's acute nerves. **

**So, thank you, my friend. Your advice has been gratefully heeded. Do enjoy.**

**Thanks to all the others who have reviewed as well. Get out there and write some Grima fic; our regiments are far too thin.**

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**Chapter Four: A Rising Tide**

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Word of the identity of the stranger in white had spread throughout the village by dawn, and elders knew well of Saruman the White and his great wisdom and powerful hand, and therefore walked their village in quiet reverence, as though the Valar themselves walked among them. They whispered in their huts of Saruman's coming to strike down the cruel, strange armies that now marched so frequently upon their territory; many were relieved, for they did not know how much longer their families might go unnoticed. 

Their children, caught up in the excitement, followed them like shadows, asking many questions about the stranger, and all received the same reply:

            "Ask him yourself!"

            Of course they did not, ever fearing the imposing stranger, as children are wont to do, and also as children their eyes were not deceived, and many times when they were at play a passing adult might overhear their doubts. Yet they shook their heads and dismissed them as child's timid ignorance, as adults are wont to do, and also as adults they went so far as to scold their children against such blind suspicion.

            So passed Saruman's days in the village, and it was though every step he took there left no print.

Lady Emertress, who had been put in charge of Wormtongue's recovery, seemed to know she had upset Grima with her claims of pity, and was repentant for it. She had forgotten the small matter of pride, an entity that she was unused to in the humble ways of her people, and using her instinct acted accordingly and left Grima to his own, knowing that she could no nothing more for him as it was. Her sisters followed her example, knowing well the fickle minds of men, and did little more than keep a watchful eye upon the door in case their ailing guest might require their aid, in which case they were ready, stowing herbs in the pockets of their skirts and listening for any call, for they were a very hospitable people and dedicated to well serving their guests.

            On the third evening they stood outside in the center of the village grounds, again preparing the cauldron for food. A fire crackled merrily beneath it, and its contents bubbled fragrantly. Emertress dropped in sprigs of wild thyme as her sisters added the meat of rabbits and squirrels, and the talk flowed freely with the other maidens of the village as they assisted, preparing bowls for serving.

            Presently Laraley stood beside her sister, and murmured, "He has not called for us yet. How fared he when you left him?"

            "As well as he could," answered Emertress, "and though he said nothing I could see he was very angry with me. He must have some strength back in his body to take such offense."

            "Aye, and that worries me," said Laraley. "His master is powerful; I possess little doubt that he harbours much himself." 

            "I am loathe to suspect him capable of anything. He is still very weak, and shows me no malice, only offense. And though I regret upsetting him I cannot say my pity is lessened; if it is such a poor subject in his eye then his life must warrant it. More so, if his anger at my concern is any indication of the torment he suffers then perhaps I did not pity him enough."

            Laraley said nothing to this, for in her mind she harboured much doubt, yet she seemed to only one amongst her sisters to feel it. She watched as Gaelen went to the cauldron and ladled a bowl full of stew, walking quickly to Grima's hut and rapping upon the door. Her sisters followed quickly, eager to learn if he would again refuse their offerings.

            "My lord, I have brought food," she called softly, and the door opened a crack. The sisters beheld the pale, clouded eye as it watched them warily. There was a long pause, and then a rasping voice said:

            "I will not take your charity. Grima fares for himself."

            "All due respect, my lord," replied Gaelen, "but one cannot fare well if he does not leave his hut to do so."

            "Leave me," Grima hissed, and the door closed.

            "Stubborn ass!" cursed Gaelen softly under her breath. "He will die of hunger in that hut, and Dengal will have our heads."

            "He won't, sister," soothed Laraley. "Dengal knows of his stubborn nature. I have told him already. It would be no fault of ours."

            "Still, my heart aches to know a creature suffers with hunger in this village," sighed Gaelen, and Emertress placed a hand upon her shoulder.

            "Come, sister. Let us go back to our duties. If he needs us, we will come. It is all we can do."

Saruman went to Grima before the dawn of the fourth day broke over Dengal's village. Wormtongue had been expecting his master, for he would surely have some part to play in the lies Saruman had uttered to the people of the camp, and when the door of his hut opened silently he was ready, though perhaps hungrier than he would have liked, but he did not regret leaving the food. 

_It was poisoned, likely_, he had thought crazily as they left him the previous evening. _They suspect me. They suspect _us_. All the better not to take in their poisons._

            "We are finished here," said Saruman abruptly. "The council refuses to march out with us, but it is no matter. I did not come here to have them follow us like mongrels. We have taken our food and our rest, and it is time to set out again. I will not have us bide our time wastefully in a place it does us no good to invade; they are no allies, nor proper beings of war. They are made fat and impudent by the land they live on, and crouch within their hovels thinking themselves safe from the world. But no… they are not safe from Saruman."

            His voice grew suddenly smooth, and he moved closer to Wormtongue, murmuring, "I have noted that the fury over your offence has grown within you these past days like a rising tide. Dengal has been informed of your refusal to trust the maidens he enlisted to care for you. I know not what grievance they have bestowed upon you, but I invite you now to dole out your retribution, before the sun is risen."

            The Wormtongue smiled, though his heart was nervous, and asked, "What would you have me do, my Master?"

            "Burn the village," said Saruman. "Burn it to the ground."


	5. Chapter Five: Alight in the Dark

**Author's Note: Sorry for the delay, mates- life and lack of inspiration hath loomed over this poor Unfortunate. Let it be known, however, that I am no quitter. **

**Rather a short chapter this time, dear readers, but hopefully sweet. Do let me know, won't you?**

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**Chapter Five: Alight in the Dark**

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Grima's hand trembled as he held the torch, which sputtered its young flame fitfully, like a babe fussing for its mother's breast, yearning not for milk but for the dry straw that its bearer had spent the better part of an hour scattering at the entrances of sleeping huts.

            Soon.

            Saruman waited on the outskirts of the village, his eyes straining in the dark for any sign of cleansing flame. His cohort had been unable to hide his surprise when the wizard had instructed him to carry out his task and return to the forest copse as quickly as he could; Wormtongue had been convinced that Saruman would not wait for him. Saruman did wait, however; the council's refusal to follow him had stung the Istari deeply, and he had planned to take revenge himself, but upon noticing Wormtongue's offense he opened an opportunity for his cohort to do the job for them both.

            So now he stood, awaiting the eruption of deadly flames.

            Soon.

Emertress and her sisters lay abed within their huts; Laraley and Galen slept soundly, their even breathing soothing in the chill night air.

Emertress, however, slept not as easily, and at times even fancied that she heard the slightest creeping sounds outside. Yet despite her unease she was tired, and stayed fast beneath her blanket, and in the shadow thought of dark things as the deepest part of night fell down outside, sweeping over the village like the black cloak of Grima.

            Soon.

All was ready.

Grima moved swiftly, his mind like the early morning fogs that oft overtook Edoras in winter. Speedily and silently he touched his torch to each carefully constructed pile of straw, dampened at its bottom with fuel so as to give Grima time to get away. The thinly shredded straw burned silently, with nary a crackle, and the occupants of the doomed huts dozed contentedly as the Wormtongue did his master's work as though a man possessed.

            At the last hut Grima touched the flame to its pile of straw, and he hissed with satisfaction, his breath steaming in the chill air.

            "_Not long, no..._"

            Then he dropped the torch and scurried off into the woodlands, where he fell upon his knees in the forest, hugging his head with his hands, baring his teeth at the images of the kind sisters who looked upon him with such pity. Soon his sallow cheeks were awash with tears, and from his throat there issued anguished sobs and strangled, growling laughter.

            Blood mingled with his tears as he gripped his temples harder with his sharp fingernails, and his spine was afire with pain from his rocking, and his knees were scraped and his hands burned, and the moon laughed down upon him with the white face of Saruman as from the village a great booming _whump_! was heard, and then many more in rapid succession. 

            They had no chance, the kind, well-meaning people in their huts in the cliff. Their two ways of escape had perished; fire formed a wall to the front of them, and to the back, the cliff's face. Many tried to leap over the flames, their children swaddled in blankets in their arms, but the fire was craftily built, and its wall was thick, and the daring fell ablaze with their burning offspring in their arms, dead. Others in their blind, animal panic rushed to the stone and clawed at with their fingers until they had naught but stumps left of their fingertips and their hope, and the fire waited patiently until they were quite messy, and then rushed in upon them with glee. Their blood was cooked upon the stone.

            Amid their screams the Wormtongue crawled back to his master, who kicked him absently, his eyes alight with satisfaction and delight, and before the last of the living had perished in flame they were abroad again, the blaze sending their wayward shadows before them like black ghosts.


	6. Chapter Six: Hunted

**Author's Note: I am truly sorry for the delay. True to winter tradition I have been smitten with a few illnesses, and being of feeble heath I have been entirely unproductive during these times. Not to mention being laid off from work… Many a day I have abandoned my keyboard for wont of inspiration, and turned instead to the inevitable and encompassing self-pity.**

**            However, I shall hope and try to continue a reputable updating trend, as I am already writing the next chapter as you read this. **

**            This chapter, as a warning, is violent and active. Do enjoy. **

**Spike out.**

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**Chapter Six: Hunted**

Several days passed, blotting out Grima's sense of reality like clouds passing over a weak winter sun. Whither they wandered the smoke was evident; a haze had wandered over the sky, and blotted out the sun of the one bright day that had thusly passed, and all was dark and troubled in the mind of Grima, as though a squall had broken within. Cold was the week he passed this way, in some dark state, and often the ground beneath his feet was slick with frost. Colder still was the hand of Saruman, which drove him on relentlessly with stinging blows, and at a horrid pace they traveled this way, miserable unto themselves. But Wormtongue no longer attempted to shelter himself from the sleet and his master's punishments, and he did not flinch from his hand, for Grima's eyes only saw the shades of the three sisters who stared down upon him terribly.

            On the fifth day following their departure heavy dark storm clouds began to steal over the horizon. Thunder voiced its displeasure in the far distance, and a cruel cold wind was blowing, cutting through the rags in which the two travelers were clad. Hastily they drew their meager protection tighter about themselves, teeth chattering, and set on resolutely, for Saruman was intent to find a village that would have him. Perhaps, he reasoned, the word of Gandalf did not travel as swiftly as feared, and some innocents might behold the form of Saruman and welcome him with the trust of old, before he had gazed too deeply into the Palantir. No one on his side would have him, for they too lacked a sound dwelling, and instead roamed the lands at his command, ultimately worthless in this bitter end; made savage and crude-- not worth the prolonged company of an Istari.

            Nor, thought Saruman, was Wormtongue, and yet the wretched man continued to dwell beneath his shadow, following at his heels and casting frightened looks behind him as though chased by the vengeful shades of those he slaughtered, and Saruman did not drive him away. Yet despite Grima's cowering a cruel madness shadowed his clouded eyes and made him dangerous and violent, though he could not bring himself to look his master in the eyes, instead flinching from his hand like a beaten dog.

            However, like a beaten dog he might show his fangs, but Saruman the Wise was not wise to this, nor would he be until the very end.

"This weather mocks us," hissed Saruman in anger, and Grima looked upward to the angry turbulent sky to see curtains of snow drifting silently down. Soon their path was white before them, and their footsteps muffled, and all was quiet in the dark gloom of their journey. Grima clutched the hem of his master's robes.

            "A fire," he whispered, afraid to speak louder in the odd silence lest his guilt, teetering like an axe above his head, might be disturbed into crashing down and splitting him asunder. "Let us make a fire, Master. The cold is unbearable."

            Saruman kicked him away irritably and snarled through gritted teeth. "Bear it, then, fool- perhaps enough of it might drive the ignorance from you! Let us build a fire, you say... Do you not realise that we are no longer so safe as in Isengard? Here in the wild we are hunted, Worm; there is no army at our dispense. Draw the wolves to us and I will cast you to them before they are upon us, a gift from Saruman the lucky, for through you I would make my escape."

            "Mercy, my lord," wept Grima, though in his heart he was not surprised at his master's words, but terrified of them still. He cowered and shivered at the mention of the wolves, whose cries he had heard frequently upon entering the silent, snow-hugged hills. As night fell down and they made to rest, Wormtongue could not stifle his uneasiness, and his eyes were ever watchful, roaming ceaselessly in the dark.

            Saruman had spoken truly of the wolf pack, who prowled desperately for food, as their normal quarry slept fast beneath the sheltering snow, but the wizard was mislead in thinking that only a fire might draw them close. Long had they stalked the pair, gathering their courage and their hunger. They were watching when Saruman kicked Grima to the ground, and could see that both creatures were weak with hunger and cold, and at a glance from their leader prepared themselves to attack.

            As the moon rose, they made their move, howling their war cry in the shivering dark.

Grima made no pretense of sleep that night when they settled down for rest, though Saruman did; he lay upon his side with his eyes halfway open, waiting for mutiny, for he had sensed Wormtongue's madness and suspected him. 

            Thus both were ready upon the first rally of the wolves, and leapt up in the shadow as the pack advanced upon them. Saruman swung his broken staff, and smote a wolf that had leapt for his throat; behind him one clung to his robes, thinking it flesh, and dragged at him. The sky reeled up and Saruman was suddenly upon his back, gazing at the wolf that went for his throat, but then the dark form of Wormtongue clouded his vision and the killing blow he expected never came. He lay stunned for a moment, watching his servant madly fighting the angry dogs, so vicious that some backed off with fangs bared uncertainly.

            Wormtongue had no weapon to the wizard's knowledge, and defended his master though he had no reason to, but as the wolves ripped at him and he at them, the hot blood that was both his and his attackers' spilling over his hands, a bloodlust previously unknown to him showed itself. Mindlessly he fought, feeling neither pain nor fear, and in time he forgot his master at his back, caring only to extinguish the snarling life that sought his throat.

            Presently the surviving wolves backed away, forming a semicircle before him, and growled at him, seeking out the courage to spring upon him once more, but they could see that their quarry was not cowed.

            "Come and face the son of Galmod," hissed Grima, his dagger in front of him where Saruman could not see. "Come and face Theoden's bane! Draw closer and warm my hands with your blood!"

            Saruman watched, wordless, as the wolves sprang again, bringing his servant to the ground. Angrily Saruman struck out at them as they snapped at his robes, and stabbed one through the back as she lunged for him. Maddened with pain she turned and sunk her teeth into the prone form of Grima, who made no sound, covered with wolves but fighting still.

            Yet Saruman had struck an important blow, for the wolf he had stabbed was their leader, and presently she slumped dead across Grima. Immediately the rest of the wolves fell back and vanished into the woodlands, howling their remorse and defeat, and soon all was quiet in the thickening dark.

Saruman wiped blood from his hands on his sodden robes, for the splinters in his staff that had been the wolf's bane had not spared him a lasting memory also. He took stock of his wounds: scraped and pierced hands, a bump on his head where it had struck the frozen ground, and a bite to his calf that throbbed mercilessly in the bitter cold. Stooping slowly, he seized a handful of snow and clapped it to the streaming wound, pausing for a moment with his cold burden, savouring the numbing relief it brought to his punished hands. His staff stood upright in the wolf leader's still corpse like a pennant, a hank of hide stuck with blood to the blunt end like some grisly banner. He wrenched it free and threw it upon the ground, and knelt upon the snow next to his fallen servant.

            Wormtongue was covered in wounds that steamed in the still night, and the slain wolf's corpse still had its jaws round his throat. Saruman heaved it off of him, more curious than worried, for he doubted that the son of Galmod could withstand such an onslaught.

            It would not be the last time Grima would surpass his master's assumptions, but it was certainly the first. His breath steamed steadily, and his lips moved as he muttered to himself. At length Saruman spoke, and his voice was not as harsh as it could have been.

            "Open your eyes, Worm, if you still live." 


	7. Chapter Seven: Of Shades, Blood, and Awe

**Author's Note:**** You guys rock. I mean, you really rock. Your reviews are stunning, your enthusiasm rich. I am ever so glad you understand my difficult situation; for that I try harder to write whenever possible. Your involvement and insight into this story has me working perhaps harder than ever before, and for it I am grateful.**

**Onward!**

**Chapter Seven: Of Shades, Blood, and Awe.**

The body of Grima lay quiet on the snow.

His mind, however, was more alive than it had been in many a long year, and as he lay in darkness at the gates of death he thought of many things, and many voices spoke to him, though they came from very far away. He listened in silence, for he had no voice of his own on these dark and echoing plains, and dread hovered about him like a shroud. Before him he saw only shadow, and it lasted for what seemed like a thousand lifetimes, yet it did not linger before him forever.

            It was then, as he surrendered himself to this blank existence, that his father split the shadow with _Baldor_ his sword, from whose blade he had met death, for when his son was but just beginning his passing as a young man the Rohirrim was ambushed by orcs. _Baldor_ was wrested from its master's grasp, and by orc-hands had tasted its bearer's bowels, and Galmod had let his blood feed the parched earth of Rohan's summer-smitten hills. The orc that had dealt him the deathblow bore the white hand of Saruman.

            Blood still glistened upon the tempered steel as it pierced the shadow as easily as it had pierced its master, and a terrible light spilled forth; in the centre stood the figure of his father, though only an outline; tendrils of black swung about his legs, spilled forth from his belly. Grima cowered and shut his eyes tightly, and soundless lips begged for mercy, though mercy on these distant plains was earned only through valour. He received none, and knelt alone.

            _Where is Grima my son?_ Galmod thundered, and his voice sent a thousand lights bursting before Wormtongue's pale eyes, which burned from the brilliance though they remained closed. _This creature before me is not the same one that I left when I rode with the Rohirrim. _

Grima found his voice then, and cried, "Father, it is I! Your Grima!" He cowered in the shadow before him, bowing his head.

            Galmod shook his head. _No,_ he said sadly, _for alas, my son is dead. He died before my body had cooled on the plains of my homeland, and none were left to shelter our family. This creature before me is but a shade, infesting the body of my son, once so loyal to Rohan. How his mother weeps still, beside me in the halls of my fathers, all shamed at the empty place made for the son of Galmod. Never will he rest there._

"Mercy, Father," begged Grima tearfully. "Do not tell me these things!"

            _I am not your father,_ said the shade, and anger thundered in his voice. _I am no father to a traitor; look at your hands, Worm—tell me what you see!_

Grima's trembling hands were wet with blood, and as he beheld them he gave a cry and wiped them furiously on his robes, but still it dripped, ever flowing, and he shut his eyes against the sight. From his hands rose the scents of his mother and sister: sweet lavender and sage mingled with the copper stench of blood, and Grima threw back his head and screamed.

            Alas, however, for it did no good; the darkness swallowed his voice until he had no breath left for screaming, and instead lay in his dark place and moaned. "Tellath…Mother…"

            _Alas_, said Galmod, _they are beside me, and hear you, but they will not answer._

Wormtongue lay wracked with grief, and his father stood over him, but the proud spirit felt no pity for the remnants of his son. _Grima is dead,_ he hissed softly.

            "No, no…" whimpered Wormtongue. "Father, I live. Please, Father…"

            _Open your eyes, Worm, if you still live_! Galmod commanded, and Grima sat up and faced the horrid light and the grisly figure of his father, and opened his eyes.

            "See!" he cried. "My eyes are open! Do not leave your Grima; he lives still!"

            Galmod raised his sword, his head shaking. _Open your eyes, Worm, if you still live!_

"They are open, they are open!" cried Grima in a frenzy, and ripped at his eyes as though to pluck them from between their lids to be eternally open, yet Galmod still shook his head and pointed his sword, and cried, _Open your eyes, Worm, if you still live!_

            Suddenly it was as though the world had folded in on itself; the light was sucked away as Galmod vanished, and Grima felt a tugging sensation as though he were being dragged upwards at a terrific speed. All the while he could hear his father's voice, though oddly growing louder and more clear rather than fading.

            _Open your eyes, Worm, if you still live!_

With a great gasp, Grima the Wormtongue came back to himself in the chill winter night.

            Saruman had not expected his request to be granted, and so it was with some awe that he beheld the body of his servant again pulsing with life. He was bloody, and the wound at his throat was difficult to look upon, but nevertheless Wormtongue slowly sat up, blinking into the night as though his eyes had been flooded with light and then left to the abrupt darkness. Saruman fancied that, bathed in gore and bleary, he looked as a creature just born; like a black-on-white cat that knew so much of the world before even entering it. The thought moved Saruman to silence, and so he sat back upon his heel and merely watched, fascinated, the quality of human endurance.

            Grima sat stoically assessing his wounds; to Saruman's surprise he did not whine or cringe but merely shook himself, sending droplets of human and wolf blood spattering. After a time he looked to his master.

            "Are you injured, my Lord?" he inquired raspily.

            "Slightly," replied Saruman carefully. "I suggest that we rest through the night, and perhaps into day when the cold is not so cruel."

            Wormtongue nodded, grateful that he would not have to travel again that night, for he was very sore. Slowly he began to scoop up handfuls of cooling snow and place them upon his wounds, hissing at the initial sting. The cold helped to numb him after a while, however, and soon he felt as though he might sleep. Turning to Saruman he said, "Rest if you are weary, my Lord. Grima will keep watch."

            Saruman stared at his servant for some time, and then shook his head, carefully keeping the awe from his voice as he replied, "No, master Wormtongue. The rule tonight is that he who sheds the most blood may sleep first. I believe you've earned this rest quite spectacularly."

            Stunned, Wormtongue could only nod his head, and stutter, "Thank you, my Lord." Painfully he turned upon his side and closed his eyes, and soon exhaustion overcame him and he fell into dreams.

            


	8. Chapter Eight: The Warmest Dawn

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Author's Note: (_opening mouth to mutter updating excuse, but closing it quickly.) _I uh… I got nothin'. Sorry for the wait, short chapter 'cos I'm tired, enjoy, next update hopefully soon, blah blah blah.

Chapter Eight: The Warmest Dawn

The Wormtongue's dreams that night were strange, filled with many screams and bursts of blood and light. He stood alone in the centre of this mayhem, his blade brandished and stained with blood, and as the noise and chaos assaulted his senses he lashed out blindly, striking nothing. He felt much fear, yet he was unafraid to die, for he knew then that he would at last be free of his master's control. The battle carried on, and though he slept Grima son of Galmod did not rest.

When he woke shortly before dawn his mind still echoed with them, their lights fading from his eyes as they were replaced with the figure of Saruman. The wizard sat watching him silently in the half-light of approaching dawn, his robes bloodied and torn yet still somehow regal. He appeared as though his injuries bothered him little, though Wormtongue's own were plaguing him with a ghastly ache. The wizard made no sound as he beheld his servant's waking. A pipe in his hand smoldered fragrantly.

Saruman caught Grima peering, and the ghost of a sad smile flitted across his lined face, gone as quickly as it had come.

"The very last bit of pipeweed. It lends some company to the thoughts of an old wizard when the night is silent."

Grima nodded, keeping his pain from his voice as he murmured, "There must be many of those thoughts in these times."

"That is not for you to tell," said Saruman harshly, and Wormtongue flinched, causing more pain to ripple through him. 

"Forgive me, my Lord. I meant not to speak out of my place."

Saruman merely nodded, exhaling an ivory plume of smoke into the cold air. He pursed his lips in thought, and they sat, the wizard and the worm, in silence for a long time.

"Your turn has come to rest," ventured Grima at last. "My Lord, since the dawn has broken a fire can no longer betray us to our foes. Might we build one?"

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To sleep by a fireside would be a welcome feeling on this aching body, thought Saruman, but he put on his best frown and said in a disapproving voice, "If you are so weak as to need one, build one yourself."

Grima nodded and bowed, thanking him profusely, and then got to his feet and limped slowly into the woodlands. He returned shortly with a bundle of pitiful sticks, for it was all that his weak and battered body could carry, and as he approached Saruman he fell to his knees and began feebly digging out a pit in the damp soil with his trembling hands. Saruman merely watched, reclining against a large stone, as his servant struggled with his flint and tinder, and finally managed a weak and sputtering flame. As it slowly took light Saruman moved closer and lay down, letting sleep overcome him. 

However, he kept one eye and one ear open as he did so, for even after the wolf attack he trusted no one but himself. This was the nature of Saruman.

Grima huddled by the flames and watched a weary sun ascend in the east. One hand was beneath his robes, and rested on his dagger, crusted with dried blood.

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How I hate him, he thought, looking to Saruman. _How I loathe the very ground he walks upon, and yet how I must worship it. Curse this half-life! Curse the damning of the son of Galmod, the very moment of his weakness!_

His hand tightened on the hilt of the weapon, yet in a moment's time fell away, helpless, frightened. He held it to the fire instead, and as he warmed he felt strength slowly returning to him. His wounds, once deeply aching, now merely stung, and though the pain plagued him it was better than its previous, bone-deep manifestation. He sighed and turned his back to the flames, warming it. Feeling weary despite his sleep he gazed blearily out into the surrounding forest, in which the birds were stirring and singing and motes of sunlight pierced the dark undergrowth.

From which a pair of eyes gazed back impassively.


	9. Chapter Nine: Voices From the Wood

**A/N: ****Hey hey hey! Look, a quick update! Don't expect this every times, mates. Poor Spike's been driven mad with other stuff and creativity is at an all-time low. So hopefully you will enjoy this chapter; it is an exhaustive effort in squeezing my reluctant muse until it gives forth a tiny trickle of the clear fluid of Creativity, which I must (sadly) dilute, bottle, and present to you thusly:**

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**Chapter Nine: ****Voices From the Wood**

Grima peered into the gloom of the undergrowth, startled at the velvet green that glinted back, very much alive, and very watchful. Afraid to move he held his breath and looked away in hopes of fooling his observer into thinking he had not seen. He thought of crawling back to Saruman, who slept no more than a few metres away, but he was afraid to move and more afraid to wake his master. Slowly he turned his eyes back to the undergrowth; the eyes remained fixed upon him, and when he looked they blinked.

          Cold fear seized the Wormtongue then, and he felt the need to flee, to get away from the eyes that seemed to be peering into his very soul. Quickly he turned and made to get to his feet, but before he could regain himself two arrows hissed out from the trees, pinning his cloak and robes to the ground and pinning him fast. He froze, turning back to look at the fringe of the wood, from which there emerged two figures, hooded and cloaked, who advanced upon him slowly. One had a bow in his long hands, and an arrow was aimed at Grima's breast; he stayed as still as he could as they strode fearlessly up to him. The unarmed figure knelt and pulled the arrows from his quarry's cloak, confident that he could not run away, for his strange pale eyes were fixed upon the arrow aimed at him.

          "Why have you done this?" hissed Grima, and watched the figures recoil slightly at his painful rasp. "I have done no harm to you or your kin; I merely sit in silence, bothering nothing." 

The unarmed one looked to his companion, who nodded, and at once they both removed their hoods to reveal fair features with delicately pointed ears and long hair, dark and sleek and straight.

          Elves! Grima tried not to show his terror, for he knew the Elves to be swift and vengeful, and often as a child had he heard admiring tales from the Riddermark, touting their accuracy and deadliness with weaponry.

       "My name is Ayan, and this Pilim," said the unarmed Elf, "and you are trespassing."

          "Forgive me," said Grima in his most placating voice. "We knew not that we were; we traveled here in the dark of night and were attacked by wolves, and thus too weary and wounded to journey on through the night."

          Ayan looked pained as Grima spoke of the wolves, and looked again at Pilim, who shook his head sadly.

          "I have heard of the Elves' love for fellow creature," said Grima, catching on quickly, "but it had to be done; they wished to kill us and would not relent."

          As Wormtongue spoke a shadow fell across him, and Pilim aimed his arrow above Grima's head as the voice of Saruman thundered out above him.

          "Take down your weapon, my fair friend," he said to Pilim, and spread his arms wide, a welcoming smile on his face. "You aim at Saruman the White, sent abroad in these dark times. We seek welcome in your company, for we have traveled long and are weary, and your fair people are a balm to the weary soul."

          Ayan laughed at this; sudden, tinkling laughter, but in that sound was the knowledge of Saruman's true nature. The Elves were not fooled; the news of the wizard's deceit had traveled far, and they certainly were not immune to its message.

          "Saruman the traitor," said Ayan with savage merriness, "seeks to draw his cloak over our eyes, Pilim. Surely he cannot think so highly of our folk now that he knows we cannot be entranced by the spell of his voice!"

          "You speak truly, Ayan," said Pilim slowly, and he did not lower his weapon but pulled tighter upon his bowstring. "The wizard is not welcome." He stared down the arrow shaft at Saruman, and his fair green eyes were chill.

          "Here," said Ayan, striding forward to the flinching Grima, "this one is wounded." Stoically he assessed the wounds, and then straightened and turned to his partner. "We shall give them the healing balm we carry, friend, and then let them go free, far from our woods. It is not our place to judge the Istari, for they are a sacred and noble race, and he is fallen from this grace. His punishment truly is to live on, shamed, and his company looks unfit to be judged, for we know not what crimes he has committed. It is likely that he follows the traitor as a slave to his fear, and would just as soon go free be he rid of this burden." Herein he gestured gracefully to Saruman, who stood calmly, but as Grima turned to peer into his master's eyes he saw that a darkness had passed over his gaze, like clouds passing over a summer sun.

          Ayan reached into a small cloth pouch that he carried at his waist, and drew from it a strange small circular box, which was beautifully engraved. He tossed it to Grima.

          "Within this box," he said, "is a balm that will help to heal your wounds and make you fit to travel far away from this wood. Should you linger your death will be swift; you are not welcome here so long as you travel in the company of Saruman."

          Grima caught the box and held it wordlessly, unable to speak to thank them for their generosity. He got slowly to his feet as Ayan and Pilim, graceful and beautiful, wise and savage, backed into the fringe of woodland, their home, and vanished from their sight.

          "Good riddance to the fools," hissed Saruman, incensed, after gazing at the blank space in the woodland fringe for what seemed to Grima like an eternity. "The Elves are wise in many ways, but not in every way. Leave them to their ignorance, Worm; I saw the scowl on Ayan's face when you mentioned the wolves."

          "I thought you slept," gasped Grima, still clutching his balm and staring into the wood. He felt as though a piece of him had left with the kindly but stern Elves, and he felt, if possible, even more empty and sad.

          "No, none can slip by my awareness, even whilst I rest, Worm," replied Saruman dismissively. "I would like to see an Elf face a hoard of hungry wolves armed with nothing but our own strength, sapped as we were by traveling. Had they been cornered as we I doubt they would be so passive."

          "Aye, my Lord, I agree," said Grima, though he didn't, not at all. Something, perhaps the shades of the stories he had been told when he was young, told him that an Elf might never find himself the prey of wolves, and if he were could simply vanish into his surroundings. He had heard that Elves were magical creatures, able to bend nature to their will, or so the Riddermark stories claimed. So awed was he by his encounter that he renounced all previous doubt of the tales he was told, for he was skeptical of them even as a small child, and yet the presence of the Elves incited within him such awe and peace that he chided himself for not believing. As the day passed and the trail of the Elves grew cold, and their memory slowly fading from his turgid mind, a deep, deep sadness engulfed him.

          Would it that he could have vanished with them.


	10. Chapter Ten: The Journey Continues

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Author's Note: Thank you again, loyal readers, for your eloquent and heartening reviews. This chapter is somewhat boring in my opinion, but as exposition it is necessary. Know that the coming chapters will be the most dramatic of the story; I will update as quickly as possible.

Chapter Ten: The Journey Continues

Onward they traveled, in which direction Grima did not know for sure, for the Elves had saturated his waking thoughts with longing. As days stretched into weeks and latterly into months he found himself wishing that he had been born one of the Fair Ones. What it would have been, he thought, to live amongst the radiant and wise, and to possess such wisdom himself, looked upon with awe and respect, like the Elf that had come to Edoras had been by Theoden's men. He pondered how his fate would be then; no creature would shrink from him, no shadows would have him, for the light that he possessed would avert its tendrils from his heart.

_Alas_, he mused, _for if that were so Grima would never have succumbed to the will of Saruman. Born instead a repulsive creature of shadows and scorn, and here remains, a slave forever_.

He never attempted to soothe himself into believing that he had any strength of will, and thus when his tears began to quietly flow he did not attempt to halt them, but merely wiped them hastily upon his cloak lest his master see and sneer. He could not help thinking, however, on his master, and he wondered that if Saruman were left utterly in the company of himself, with no other watchers, if he would weep similar tears.

_No,_ he decided at last, _for the will of Saruman is an unfathomable thing, and would never let his agonies touch the fount of his tears. Unlike poor Grima, slave even unto himself. Would it that something might show mercy, even one of the little insects that light upon my healing wounds and bite._

Yet mercy was not to be, and the Wormtongue knew this, and thus for his part he harboured no false hope. Instead he followed his master, close to the ground, and thought of the Elves and how they would never be forced to crawl on their bellies in the dirt.

"Poor Grima," he muttered to himself one day. "Poor hungry Grima, crawling like a beast. The fates are ever so cruel to him."

"What?" inquired Saruman, for Wormtongue's moaning had been increasing in volume over the past several days. He stopped and looked down at his servant, who thrust his face into the dirt and clutched blindly and subserviently at the hem of his master's cloak.

"Nothing, I say nothing of value, Master, only old stories for company," he cringed, and Saruman frowned at him.

"Be silent, then, if you've got nothing of value to say." The eyes upon him were touched with anger, and yet something nameless glimmered in their depths, and from his low place Grima wondered if Saruman, too, understood his fate and mourned.

The trek began again, and to Saruman's ears Grima was silent, yet the little man still cried softly to himself, though his whimpers were choked and muddy with dirt. By and by he would happen upon a tuft of grass, poking out defiant and hopeless in the ocean of dead brown round it, and this Grima would seize and stuff into his mouth, for food was fast approaching the quantity of his hope, and soon there would be none.

The journey was long and arduous, and once they happened upon two of the halflings, Gandalf, and many men, but the tale of their meeting has been told. Suffice it to say that they carried faster after this, an angry spring in Saruman's step that quickened the pace, as though the presence of Gandalf and his fellows stung some unseen and open wound and made him wish to leave them quickly behind. Grima did not complain to his master, but his days and weeks had run together as written words will when touched with water or blood. He wondered when their traveling would cease, and found that he wished in his heart of hearts that he might die before their footsteps halted, for he found neither hope nor joy at the thought of where they were going. Many nights the wolves would howl around them, and his old wounds would ache as a reminder of their danger; he would edge closer to Saruman though he loathed him, and the wizard for his part did not push him away.

It was one morning when dawn broke that Grima noticed his surroundings, and saw emerald rolling hills that crouched lazily upon the earth like sleeping dragons in the distance. Long had they passed Enedwaith through the gap of Rohan, through which Grima had crawled in a tumult of turgid emotion, and thus passing Enedwaith he knew that they traveled north, over a great rive that Saruman called the Greyflood. A flood it had been, and their robes were sodden for many cold days afterwards, though they felt cleaner for their efforts. There were many days that passed, and the sleeping dragon hills grew larger in the distance, and Saruman told him that they passed now through Minhiraith, and were on its borders. Grima was only mildly curious, for the slog though the river Greyflood had not fully cleansed him of his distress at passing Rohan, and thus his conscious thoughts were hazed by it so that he cared little of what they were passing.

Yet the hills with their emerald cloaks drew his fascination ever more as they grew closer, and it was one day that he heard the great rushing of water and turned to Saruman.

"Master, do we approach another river?"

Saruman nodded slowly, his eyes alight with some new fire, and murmured, "It is the Brandywine you're hearing, Worm. It is a river not so large as the Greyflood, and there is a bridge."

"Where then do we travel?" asked Grima, for three rivers he had already faced on the journey and was growing weary of them. 

The fire in Saruman's eyes blazed ever brighter as he said, "We are nearly finished with our travels, Worm. In but two weeks' time we shall be among those hills you see, ina place called the Shire."

"The Shire?" Grima wondered aloud. "What will we do in the Shire, Master?"

Saruman laughed grimly, frighteningly, and thrust his broken staff toward the hills. The sun was rising over them, the breath of dawn was rising warmly, cleanly, and Grima could hear birds singing more merrily than he had heard them since the untroubled days of Rohan. Saruman's voice hushed them as he said,

"I plan to conquer it, Worm."


End file.
